I have kids, so I therefore watch a lot of Disney movies. In the movie WALL-E, the Earth has been destroyed by pollution, so all the humans have been put on a spaceship and blasted out to a far-away galaxy. They all sit in their own private floating chairs, watching their personal little TVs, eating and drinking to their heart's content. They are, for the most part, completely unaware of the people around them. On a side note, they also become tragically obese and barely able to walk.

Geez, Disney.

When I’m curled up on the couch and watching movies like this with my kids, I have these moments when I think everything is OK. I’m busy at work. People come into the wine shop, and I pour them a little something I have open. I get to chat with wine-sales reps and interact with customers and my co-worker. Aside from the whole mask-wearing thing, it feels a lot like business as usual. And for that, I’m eternally grateful.

Then I have moments of sheer panic. I begin to think about WALL-E and our society, and how we are disconnecting from each other. I think about social gatherings—and more specifically, my wine tastings—becoming plagued with trepidation and fear. “Did he just cough?” “She sneezed near my wine!” Check, please!

Luckily, for now, we have found a new way to look at one another while we sip our wine du jour—and that webcam is giving us some solace. It’s a convenient and simple way to feel like we’re engaged, and makes the distance between us a little more palatable.

But for me, the Zoom wine parties, while an acceptable substitute for now, will never compensate for actual human interaction. I crave the energy at wine events that people give off when they are looking you in the eye and telling you a story. I love eavesdropping on the side conversations that break out when people who just met are making a connection—a connection that was formed through a mutual appreciation of wine (or whatever!) and a desire to be surrounded by other warm and friendly strangers.

I’ve seen the most beautiful friendships form at the wine bar during our weekly tastings—between people who may never have crossed paths had it not been for these little social events during the week. It is so important to me that these bonds not be broken that I began our own Zoom wine get-togethers. Much to my surprise, they are a blast! It’s undeniably fun to play with technology in a new way and create conversations through an unexpected medium. Even with all the kinks and quirks, we manage to make it work.

Imagine if I told you three months ago that the only way you would be able to have a glass of wine with friends soon would be through the computer. You might have politely laughed, or worse, assumed I’d gone off the deep end and sent me directly to Betty Ford. But here we are, clamoring for socialization to the point that staring into a little black dot is giving us just enough hope to carry on. But I’m not gonna lie—sometimes, it makes me sad.

Is this going to be the new normal? Is this the point where we throw our hands up and say, “Oh, well, I’ll just pour myself a glass of wine, get in my jammies and FaceTime with my BFF. I mean, who wants to get all dressed up and go out when I can sit on my couch and not waste gas or risk getting a DUI?”

I would like to think I’m being overly hyperbolic, but when I think back—well before this isolation occurred—I clearly remember that you could walk into any restaurant, and somewhere, seated at a table, were two people. These two people consciously made an effort to get dressed, get in their cars, and drive to a public place in order to physically spend time with one another. And those same two people were spending the entire time together looking at their phones, barely speaking to each other—no pandemic needed.

It seems we had already begun our path to social distancing.

It’s a little-known fun fact that the reason we clink glasses before we take a sip is so we can involve every one of our senses during the tasting experience: The clink happens so we can also engage our ears. This concept got me thinking about drinking wine socially with another person versus drinking by yourself. Isn’t there an old adage that warns of the dangers of drinking alone? I wonder if the danger is the potential for the drink to mean more than the company, or maybe the concern was that without others present, it was no longer a social experience, but a necessary outlet. Is Zoom giving us permission to drink alone? Was there an underlying motive to clink our glasses so we were sure to be in the company of others when we were drinking?

This is not to say I think Zoom or FaceTime will replace real-life human interaction. It won’t. And for that, I’m also grateful. But I don’t want complacency. I don’t want people to choose comfort over connection. I don’t want this situation to change our mindset where we focus more on disconnecting and separating than we do on embracing friends and community. I don’t want to become a society where instead of it being just one table with two people cut off from conscious interaction, it’s the whole damn place.

At the end of WALL-E, two chairs accidentally bump into each other, causing the occupants to break their trance and actually notice one another. Incidentally, they also fall on the floor and roll around like barrels, unable to get up. In spite of that, it’s actually a pretty touching moment. They realize they’ve wasted all this time, so close and yet so far apart.

When all this is over, please choose togetherness. Please choose joy and human connection. Choose glass-clinking, good food and wine, and laughter, and conversations that don’t require buffering or Wi-Fi.

Be well, and I’ll see you soon.

Katie Finn is a certified sommelier and certified specialist of wine with two decades in the wine industry. She can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..

Here we are, still at home—eating and drinking away another day in the confines of our own kitchen. And while you’re sitting at home wondering what to make for your third lunch or second pre-meal dinner, may I suggest you harness your boredom by turning your kitchen table into a personal food-and-wine experience?

I mean, why not? What else are you doing today?

I keep hearing people talk about their well-intended goals for this time of quarantine. Meanwhile, I’m over here, like, what wine can I pair with my P.F. Chang’s lettuce cups that will blow my mind? (By the way, the answer is the Union Sacre Belle de Nuit dry gewürztraminer. Ahhh … sublime.)

So if you love the idea of food-and-wine pairings, but you’re not sure about all the “rules” and/or don’t know where to start, here is my take on how to have your own food-and-wine pairing adventure.

I should start off by saying that any “rule” regarding what you should or shouldn’t pair with certain foods can almost always be debunked. Anyone who claims you can’t have a red wine with fish has clearly never experienced a light and bright Italian schiava with an herb-roasted branzino with tomatoes, olives and potatoes. Or if someone tells you that you can’t have a white wine with a steak, pop a bottle of Blanc de Noir Champagne, and gleefully down it with a tender filet mignon. Then tell them they can’t have any.

The point is: Some of the best food-and-wine pairings come in the most unexpected ways. My favorite pairing—the one I request for my birthday every year—is a bucket of fried, greasy chicken paired with a bottle of Gaston Chiquet Blanc de Blancs Grand Cru Champagne. If you have never experienced the bliss associated with bubbles and fried food, you truly have not lived.

A lot of people avoid attempting to pair their dinner with an “appropriate” wine, because the idea of food-and-wine pairings seems overwhelming and complicated. There are countless books written about how to create the perfect pairing—how to bridge ingredients to match your food with your wine’s flavor profile. That’s a lot of pressure. I admit I’ve been part of the problem: At times, when a customer has come into the shop and told me they are having XYZfor dinner, and asked what I recommend, I’ve tried to explain a wine’s effect on salt, spice, fats and acid. Once I realize I’ve gone too far, I remind myself: “Down, girl. This isn’t a chemistry class. They just want to know what’s gonna taste good with their meal.”

Rest assured: There is no such thing as a “perfect pairing.” There is no one ideal wine for one specific dish. Just as there are countless ways to tweak a recipe, there are countless grapes from every country in the world, in various incarnations, that can and should be explored with a meal.

Now, that being said, here are a few tips to help you on your journey to food-and-wine matchmaking.

When I talk to people about the flavors and aromas they detect in a specific wine, the adjectives are all over the place. This should make sense, because wine is subjective, right? You’re going to taste what your brain tells you to. So, instead of trying to pair food and wine based on flavors, it’s much easier and, frankly, much more practical to pair a wine to a dish based on weight, texture and volume. Think of it like this: Much of the protein or meat’s power comes from what it’s served with, the sauce that’s covering it and the way it is cooked. I wouldn’t pair a New York strip covered in melted blue cheese with the same wine as a filet mignon topped with asparagus, crab meat and béarnaise sauce. A wine wouldn’t pair equally with chicken parmigiana and kung pao chicken.

If you take anything away from this, it should be that the protein is relatively unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Instead, look at how loud the dish is. Think about how heavy or rich the food is. Capellini pomodoro would be considered a light and quiet dish that calls for a light and quiet wine—like a pinot grigio from Northern Italy. A good example of a quiet but heavy dish would be butter-poached scallops with mashed potatoes. A comparable heavy but quiet wine would be an unoaked chardonnay. Heavy and loud? Let’s go back to that steak with blue cheese. That’s about as heavy and loud as it gets, and a great match is an equally heavy and loud wine like a California cabernet, an Argentinian malbec or a tannat from Uruguay.

Also, there is an old adage that’s pretty hard to beat: If it grows together, it goes together. For example, you’d be hard-pressed to find a better wine match for pasta covered in a San Marzano tomato sauce than a Sangiovese-based wine from Tuscany. If you’re feeling your inner Julia Child and cooking up a French cassoulet, it almost begs for a syrah from the Northern Rhone. And I can’t imagine firing up a pan of aromatic paella without having a layered and fragrant bottle of albarino from the Rias Baixas in Spain. Sticking to tried-and-true classic pairings is such a fun way to explore a country, its cuisine and its wines—from your own dining room table.

Of course, there are going to be tricky dishes, perhaps from regions and countries that don’t have a wine culture where you can pair the indigenous grape to the local cuisine. There will be dishes that are somehow light and loud and heavy and quiet all at the same time. I am, of course, speaking about Asian food. At some point, you’ll find yourself knee-deep in a Thai recipe—all 84 ingredients prepped, diced, plucked, marinated, shaved, julienned and minced—and you’ll ask yourself, “What wine do I open with this?” Here’s my short answer: Riesling. Try that gewürztraminer. You also won’t go wrong with a beer.

And remember: If all else fails, just drink Champagne.

Katie Finn is a certified sommelier and certified specialist of wine with two decades in the wine industry. She can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..

The sun is shining. The weather is getting warm. The patio furniture has been brought out of hibernation. For wine lovers, this means one thing … rosé season has arrived.

As I began to write this piece, I was all set to recommend my favorite pink beauties and perhaps touch on the strange new mindset in which some people refuse to drink rosé that’s more than a year old. But … instead of celebrating the arrival of the newest, freshest wines, and the arrival of springtime in the valley—with all the amazing events, and parties, and social gatherings—life has been put on hold. We are being told to isolate ourselves while COVID-19 takes its toll on society.

Writing about wine in light of everything that is going on seems, well, trite.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized the notion of keeping calm and carrying on might be exactly the thing to do. After all, I’m no expert on the coronavirus or economics, so writing about how all of this will affect the wine industry, or our health, is way out of my area of expertise.

What I do know is wine. And I know that even though, right now, things are uncertain, we can’t stop living life (even if we’re living it at home), and we should not stop doing the things we can to that bring us joy. And drinking rosé brings me great joy. So, in the spirit of moving forward, let’s talk about pink wine, shall we?

It wasn’t all that long ago that the sight of someone drinking a glass of something pink meant that they were wine novices, and their blushing beverage had to be sweet, cheap, white zinfandel. Fast-forward a decade or so, and there is such a glut of bone-dry rosé on the market that you’d be hard pressed to find anything even remotely resembling the Boone’s Farm or Sutter Home of days gone by.

But even with this increase in popularity of rosé and dry pink wine, I’m still amazed at the amount of confusion and the misconceptions regarding just what this wine is.

If you’ve ever wondered why there are so many different hues and varying shades of pink—from pale salmon to deep magenta—it will help to understand just how rosé is made.

In the simplest possible explanation, rosé is created with any red-wine grape that ferments on the skins for a very short period of time. It’s the skins of the grapes that provide the color in a wine, so the darkness and thickness of the grape’s skin, and the length of time you leave the skins in with the fermenting juice, will dictate how pigmented the final product is. Even white zinfandel is really just red zinfandel—the big, hearty wine you know and love—that was taken off the skins early.

Like all things that become popular, everyone in the wine industry was eager to jump on the pink bandwagon and get a piece of the pie. So, with every region on the globe, and every red grape imaginable, offering a pink counterpart, how do you choose?

For me, I always love going directly to the source. In France, specifically the southern Mediterranean region, these wines were created around the sixth century. Called vins de soif or “wines to quench thirst,” these wines were always meant to be deliciously drinkable and, at the same time, sophisticated and every bit as serious as the other wines created across the rest of France.

The two names synonymous with exceptional Provencal rosé are Domaine Tempier and Domaine du Gros’ Noré. These are the crème de la crème of French rosé and worth every penny: If you want to experience the most sophisticated incarnations of pink wine, look no further. Of course, names like Domaines Ott and Chateau Miraval are well-known and elegant wines in their own right, if not a little over-exposed.

If drinking esoteric wines is your thing, then you and I probably already know each other and drink wine on the reg. But if, by chance, we haven’t met, I’ll share with you my favorite rosé’s that are off the beaten path.

The Massaya rosé of cinsault from the Bekaa Valley, Lebanon, is a truly special wine. It’s owned and operated by Lebanese brothers who returned to their homeland after the civil war and revitalized their family’s winery, which had been ravaged by the war. They partnered with three of the greatest French houses—Cheval Blanc, Vieux Telegraphe and Chateau Angélus—and create stunning wines. The rosé has beautiful flavors of sour cherry, fresh strawberries and cracked pepper.

The wines of Corsica are also making a big splash, and Clos Alivu is presenting itself as one of the best producers on the island. They create a rosé from the region of Patrimonio using an indigenous grape called nielluccio. Turns out nielluccio is what the Corsicans call sangiovese, so perhaps it’s not that strange after all. With flavors of sweet cranberry, honeydew melon and raspberries, you’ll wonder why you’ve never heard of it!

California remains a source of beautiful rosé, but finding a style that fits a specific palate can be a little more challenging. The rosés made from pinot noir coming from the cool Sonoma Coast appellation are crisp and vibrant. I adore the Jax Vineyards Y3 rosé, with its low alcohol, bright acidity and layers of fresh strawberries, rosé petals and watermelon.

The Bedrock “Ode to Lulu” rosé is a blend from historic plantings of mourvedre, grenache and carignan, from heritage vineyards all across California. Peaches, cantaloupes, fresh herbs and a touch of salinity make this rosé incredibly thought-provoking and unique.

Maybe this time of solitude can be used to learn more about ourselves. Maybe we’ll connect with our families, or maybe we’ll finally fix that broken drawer, or leaky faucet. Maybe we can sip wine from far-off places and imagine ourselves in a beautiful wine landscape. However you choose to use your time, please always try to fill it with joy.

Katie Finn is a certified sommelier and certified specialist of wine with two decades in the wine industry. She can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..

There isn’t a wine professional alive who hasn’t uttered these words to a consumer. And all of these statements, to an extent, are lies.

On one hand, we tell people that the only thing that matters is whether or not they personally like the wine—and they should never feel embarrassed or question their choices. That’s a good rule to live by, no matter the topic. On the other hand, while we are assuaging people’s wine fears, we are also dumbing down wine, and stripping away the very things that make us love wine in the first place—all the elements that a single vineyard, from a single year, from a particular type of fruit, influenced by specific weather patterns, and tended to by loving stewards of the land, can so articulately express in such a small form.

So … why do we wine professionals tell people these things? Is it so we’re not the wine bad guy? Is it because we’re just grateful people have put down their Cosmopolitan martinis and are drinking wine, no matter what it is?

What’s equally as problematic is the underlying suggestion that wine professionals would rather have people drink what they know they like, as opposed to trying something new. I mean, heaven forbid someone tries something and doesn’t like it! That would go against all that matters!

Yes, of course I want people to drink what they like. I don’t think there’s a sommelier or “wine expert” who wants to deny people the innate joy of drinking their favorite bottle of wine. After all, wine’s very existence is rooted in pleasure, and it’s meant to enhance life. This is part of what makes wine so wonderful. I will also contend that enjoying a glass of wine shouldn’t always require a scholarly effort in order to understand what’s in the glass. Sometimes, a wine's greatest gift can be the sheer gulp-ability of it. But it’s important not to confuse a pleasurable wine with a quality wine, or conflate the notion that our own perception of the wine is the only one that matters.

When I was studying for my advanced sommelier exam, I had the privilege of tasting with a master. As I began to analyze the first wine—swirling, sniffing and tasting—he asked me to tell him about it. I proceeded to say, “I like it.”

That’s when the flogging began. He looked me dead in the eye and said: “Katie, I don’t give a (expletive) what YOU think about this wine. Your opinion of it doesn’t matter. I asked you to tell me about it. Identify its qualities. Is it balanced? Concentrated? Seamless across your palate? Does it have a sense of place, and does it show typicity?” These were the important factors in determining the wine’s quality: Regardless of personal preference, these are the universal elements that designate a wine’s caliber. I wasn’t tasting the wine for my own pleasure; I was looking for its place among all the other wines. It was my job to look for and identify what the average wine consumer can’t see.

Once I learned to take myself out of the equation, I was able to be an advocate for wine-lovers to discover new gems they didn’t know existed—wines of great quality and value. I would be able to help change preconceived notions that just because one wine tastes a certain way, that does not mean all wine tastes that way.

I recently offended someone by writing in a newsletter that I gained immense satisfaction and joy from introducing someone to a wine that surprised them—something this person unexpectedly enjoyed when the person previously thought it was a grape or region for which he or she didn’t care. I couldn’t understand how this could possibly be offensive, and the look on my face prompted my victim to further explain his outrage. He proceeded to tell me that he should be able to drink whatever he likes without some “wine know-it-all” trying to change his mind.

Yes, I whole-heartedly agree. Just like I would never try to convince a Pepsi drinker to switch to Coke, or explain to a skeptic that the Grand Canyon is more than just a big hole in the ground, I would never want to make wine overly important to someone who merely sees it as an alcoholic beverage.

When it comes to simply selecting a wine du jour, there are plenty from which to choose. Every grocery store and big-box wine retailer is stocked floor to ceiling with wines that are crafted and manipulated to be void of regionality and varietal correctness. Most wine today is made in a homogeneous style, meant to be crowd-pleasing, without any discernible features or identifiable traits: These wines are often ripe, luscious and drinkable, with ample alcohol and just enough sugar to be detectable without being “too sweet.” These are the wine equivalents of Stepford wives. No pontificating or analyzing required—it’s just a pleasant, nondescript glass of wine.

I’ll end with this: I’m not here to judge you or your wine preferences. I never want to offend anyone. It’s not anyone’s job to use wine as a weapon to bludgeon someone for choices or for some sort of perceived inferior wine knowledge. But I’m also not here to tell you what you want to hear. I will never tell you that just because you love a big Napa cabernet, it will make a fine pairing with that hamachi hand roll. I will never tell you to only drink what you know you like.

I am here to make wine more enjoyable for those who care to know. I believe that learning the history and story of where the wine comes from can lead to a more-satisfying experience. I believe that we should constantly be tasting new and different wines—and that by doing that, we can discover more about what we like and don’t like.

It’s my job to show you there’s a whole world of wine out there. You just have to want to see it.

Katie Finn is a certified sommelier and certified specialist of wine with two decades in the wine industry. She can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..

California wines are often described with adjectives like powerful, jammy, oaky, buttery, ripe, intense and concentrated—but it’s descriptors like these that make my stomach turn and have me reaching for the nearest can of Modelo. Yes, the flavor profiles that have become synonymous with mainstream California wines are the very attributes I loathe in a wine.

In the world of wine geekdom, loving California wine—in all its over-extracted glory—is often associated with being a pedestrian wine-drinker: You needed a wine to punch you in the face with its flavors and aromas in order to appreciate it. Bigger is better, right? This is how the California wine industry defined itself and how it found unparalleled success with the cocktail-to-wine converts. But there is another wine story beginning to emerge—a story that is compelling and exciting, being written by young, innovative winemakers who are consciously choosing to break away from convention and forge a new California wine style.

This is the California that I love. These are the wines that are creating a new definition. That said, I would be remiss if I failed to acknowledge that this “new” style is really not new at all.

These winemakers are embracing the way wine was crafted for hundreds, if not thousands, of years, before chemicals and flavor manipulation—before “recipe” winemaking and a desire for wines to always taste the same from year to year. Wines were supposed to be different, depending on the vintage and where the grapes were from. Wine was a time capsule that so beautifully reflected a time and place that could be revisited with the pull of a cork.

A friend of mine once used a brilliant analogy to describe this winemaking mindset. He likened these guardians of the grapes to midwives: The winemakers are simply there to guide the process along, protect the wines from harm during the various stages, and interfere only to prevent tragedy. Otherwise, you stay out of the way and let nature do its thing. The result? Wines that are wild, diverse, energetic and unapologetically honest.

Much to my delight, I’m not the only desert denizen who has a passion for the avant-garde wine styles making a splash in the Golden State. Christine Soto of Dead or Alive wine bar in Palm Springs decided in 2018 that she was going to create an entire wine festival dedicated to the “new California.” But this wasn’t going to be just any old trade tasting. No … she assembled a roster with the greatest emerging talent in the state, all under the very hip roof of the Ace Hotel and Swim Club in Palm Springs.

Anyone who’s ever been to a large-scale wine-tasting knows that, more often than not, you will hold your glass out and receive your taste from anyone but the winemaker. Sales reps, suppliers, importers, a temp from the tasting room—all are decent ambassadors of the wines they represent, but let’s be honest: There’s nothing quite like having a one-on-one conversation with the person responsible for creating what’s in your glass. This is just one of the elements of Golden Grapes, as the Palm Springs Wine Fest is also known, that make it so special.

Needless to say, the Palm Springs Wine Fest—dedicated to the fierce and determined California wine successors—is indeed a success. This December marked the second year of this gathering of talent—and for the second year, I found myself positively giddy as I wandered around the room, more than just a little bit star-struck. To my surprise, the winemakers and principals were just as happy to be here as I was to see them. Over and over again, I heard comments about how fun this tasting was, and how great the consumers were. They were so impressed with the thoughtful and genuinely curious questions that were being asked. The energy was palpable, and the vibe in the room was electric and brimming with happiness. There was zero pretense or snobbery—just a room full of passionate people, with the creators and the consumers equally appreciative of each another. Trust me when I say that this is not the norm.

Many of the winemakers hadn’t been to Palm Springs in years. Some hadn’t been here since a childhood vacation, and others had never visited our sunny paradise. One thing was for certain, though: Everyone I spoke to said they love it here and want to come back.

So, at the end of the event, we were left with happy winemakers, coming together in a stunning location, interacting with fun-loving and inquisitive patrons. Sounds like a good time to me. I have no doubt that Golden Grapes, or the Palm Springs Wine Fest, or whatever you want to call it, is going to become one of the most important wine gatherings in the country. It goes well beyond simply tasting fun, esoteric wines, and is actually setting a higher bar for future winemakers and producers—and represents a shift in consumer wine awareness.

Now, I just need to be patient and wait for next winter to roll around. It just keeps getting better and better.

Katie Finn is a certified sommelier and certified specialist of wine with two decades in the wine industry. She can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..

As we approach the start of the new year, I’ve been reflecting on my time here in the desert since moving back from Napa a few years ago. The one thing that I have realized is how much I underestimated the wine savvy—or better yet, the sense of exploration—of the wine consumers here.

When I first started buying wine for a retail space, my overall goal was to bring in wines that were more esoteric, more global, more natural—and more fun! I wanted to start steering away from the mass produced “grocery store” wines toward wines that were created by small producers—farmers and winemakers with deep roots, but perhaps shallow pockets. One at a time, I brought in a quirky label, and then another, and then an unheard-of varietal—hoping that maybe a hipster out of Los Angeles would stumble in and buy some, or maybe someone would trust me enough to take a recommendation for a wine out of left field. At the very least, I knew these wines were incredible—and if all else failed, I could always buy the case and drink the wine myself!

But then something started to happen … people started coming in and asking for these wines. Customers began talking to me about things like skin-contact whites and carbonic maceration. I would hear guests at tastings applaud the low-alcohol content in the wines that were being poured—and tell me they specifically came in to taste the Ribolla Gialla I was pouring.

What?! Who are you people? Where have you been?

Every day, I am surprised and excited by what people are gravitating toward—and so, in the spirit of new beginnings, for all my wine adventurers out there, here are some of my favorite “must-try” wines for 2020.

Italy is one of the most-daunting wine countries to tackle, but it’s also one of the most rewarding. Each region has its own pasta and cheese to which it lays claim, and the same can be said for wine varietals—many of which historically almost never made it out of the country, and instead were consumed entirely by its local audience. From the Trentino-Alto Adige region in the far north, look for the deeply colored and richly textured Teroldego. Elisabetta Foradori, who is considered by many to be one of the greatest winemakers in Italy, took on the task of saving this grape from obscurity, and her bottlings are nothing short of glorious. It’s an intensely juicy wine, with loads of blackberry and raspberry flavors, followed by a subtle sweet smokiness.

On the other end of the intensity spectrum is a deliciously light-bodied red called Schiava. This delicious pinot noir-like grape also hails from the Alto Adige region and is as silky and feminine as it gets. Beautiful notes of rose petals, freshly picked strawberries and a touch of lemon zest are the hallmark flavors of this little grape.

From Southern Italy, seek out a wine made from the Aglianico grape. Made primarily in Campania and Basilicata, these brooding reds definitely fall into the savory category. If you’re a fan of rustic wines with layers of flavors (think old-vine zinfandels), you’ll be delighted by the notes of leather, figs, white pepper, nutmeg and boysenberries.

In France, there’s a little-known region called Jura that has garnered the attention of high-profile sommeliers and wine lovers alike. Located on the eastern border between Burgundy and Switzerland, this is a cool-climate region producing some pretty esoteric and geeky wine. For years, this small appellation was known mainly for a sherry-like wine called Vin Jaune, or “yellow wine,” which I wouldn’t necessarily recommend. However, the region is now becoming known for a delightful red wine made with a grape called Trousseau that is worth seeking out. Trousseau creates a pale, light-bodied wine that’s surprisingly powerful. It’s so intensely flavored, in fact, that there are sommeliers in three-star Michelin restaurants pairing this seemingly delicate wine with prime cuts of steak! Trousseau might be the most obscure wine suggested here, but if you keep a lookout, finding one might be easier than you think. In fact, there are even a handful of California producers who have sought out domestic plantings of this esoteric grape and are producing some stellar incarnations of both Trousseau Noir and its cousin, Trousseau Gris. A few California names to look for are Jolie-Laide, and Arnot-Roberts. Domaine des Ronces and Michel Gahier are prime examples from Jura.

If you continue to travel south in Europe, this wine adventure will take you into Spain. Right now, there is no greater wine-producing country that offers up as much bang for your buck. Sure, we all know about Tempranillo and Garnacha, and even Cariñena isn’t as obscure as it once was … but have you ever had a Mencía? Hailing from the small western regions of Ribera Sacra and Bierzo, this dark and herbaceous red was once thought to be related to cabernet Franc. Although we now know that’s not the case, this aromatic wine is sure to be a hit with anyone who loves earthy and spicy reds. My personal favorites are the Mencías crafted by Raul Perez under the “Ultreia” label; his protege, Pedro Rodriguez, is creating stunning examples called Guimaro.

The perfumy and citrusy Spanish Albariño has long been my go-to for a crowd-pleasing white alternative to sauvignon blanc. But if you’re ready to venture into uncharted territory, there’s a grape called Hondarrabi Zuri from the Basque region that makes the most refreshing and slightly spritzy white called Txakolina. I cannot think of a better patio wine for our desert climate. It’s a bounty of fresh citrus like key limes, Meyer lemons and Clementine tangerines, all backed by a subtle fragrance of white jasmine and the tiniest presence of bubbles.

Lastly, leave it to Paul Hobbs to bring a project from Armenia to the forefront of our budding wine culture. Areni, which is a grape native to Armenia and the Republic of Georgia, is possibly the oldest varietal on Earth—not surprising, given that this region is the birthplace of viticulture. In 2011, archaeologists discovered artifacts from a winery dating back at least 6,100 years. Hobbs has now partnered with the Yacoubian family from this small Armenian village to revitalize this ancient grape. I recently found out that there are a handful of country clubs (country clubs!) in the Coachella Valley that currently have the Yacoubian-Hobbs Areni on their wine lists. Who would have thought?

So here’s to a new year full of exploration, curiosity—and a community of wine lovers who continue to surprise and inspire me.

Katie Finn is a certified sommelier and certified specialist of wine with more than 15 years in the wine industry. She can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..

On one hand, there is nothing in the world that I love more than having a platform and a captive audience with whom I get to share my passion and enthusiasm for wine. I get a thrill seeing the expression on a person’s face when they try a wine for the first time—and they love it. They didn’t even know something like this existed, and now they can’t get enough of it. I, in turn, get to “geek out,” filling their head with a ton of useless information about the history of the grape, how it’s cultivated, and the wars, political upset and economic devastation this little vine had to endure.

I have goosebumps as I write. I live for this stuff.

On the other hand, I have to constantly attempt to debunk certain wine myths that people cling to for dear life. (“No, those fans you’ve seen in the vineyards are not there to cool down the workers.”) For the last decade or so, the No. 1 piece of misinformation I encounter more than any other involves “wine allergies.” I am inundated with stories about how “certain wines” affect people’s sinuses and bowels, and cause rashes, hives, migraines … you name it. And the primary supposed culprit is sulfites.

Ahh yes, sulfites. It’s never long before someone at a tasting informs me that they can only drink French wine, because there aren’t sulfites in French wine. This is sometimes followed by more misinformation—that there aren’t any sulfites in Italian wine, either, but they just didn’t care for Italian wines as much. On occasion, I’ll feel feisty (and well-rested) enough to challenge this ridiculousness. But the truth is … most folks don’t want to hear it. They have convinced themselves that, somehow, what they are experiencing is an affliction to the most common preservative in the world.

A wine representative I know—well-versed in organic and natural wines—shed some interesting light on why she thinks this negative idea of sulfites is continually perpetuated. She said that because we are a label-conscious society, perhaps when we suffer an unpleasant side effect from a glass of wine, we look at the label to see what could be the cause. Well, the only “ingredient” listed on a bottle of wine is a notification that it contains sulfites—so, naturally, sulfites must be the thing causing the headache/sneezing/loss of consciousness etc. This sounds very plausible to me.

The fact is, there are more sulfites in a glass of orange juice than there are in an entire bottle of wine. Bacon, onions and garlic, pickles, jams and jellies, cookies and potato chips—I could go on and on and on—all have notable amounts of sulfites present. If you are one of the truly unfortunate people to suffer from a sulfite sensitivity—the Food and Drug Administration claims about 1 percent of you are—this shocking revelation did not come to you last Saturday night because you downed a glass of California cab. You’ve probably known it for a long, long time.

So, why do people think these European countries are somehow sulfite-exempt? I have a few theories, but the most obvious is that most French and Italian wines do not have the high alcohol content or the amount of color extraction that California wines have. Why would color be a factor? Well, this leads me to the allergy part of the equation. Most white wine is removed from the skins immediately after pressing the juice out, whereas red wine gets its color from the skins. When these grapes are brought in for crushing, they are covered with wild yeast and various “floaties” in the air that settle on the grapes. Those “floaties” are histamine triggers, and the longer the juice sits in contact with the skins in order to obtain that inky-dark glass of wine you crave, the more time it’s stewed with all those allergy-triggering elements. Nature … it’s a bitch. So the next time you read a label and are concerned with the “sulfites added” line, please keep a few things in mind: Just like the government requires companies to let you know that alcohol consumption is bad for pregnant women and might impair your ability to operate heavy machinery, it also requires winemakers to let you know that sulfites are present in wine, even if in an almost undetectable amount—10 parts per million, to be exact. Here’s the real kicker: Sulfites happen naturally! They are a perfectly normal byproduct of all alcoholic fermentation. The addition of sulfur dioxide to wine happens for the same reason it’s put into anything else—to prevent bacterial growth, browning and oxidation.

Ironically, if you truly want to avoid sulfites, you should drink red, because there are often more sulfites added to white wine in an attempt to prevent browning and oxidation. There are also wines on the market now that are labeled sans soufre, which literally means without sulfites. But … this is declaring that additional sulfites haven’t been added, not that the wine is completely without sulfur dioxide.

Now, I’m not a doctor. I shouldn’t go around diagnosing people and their wine aliments … but I do anyway. So here is my unprofessional opinion: The rash, headache, sore muscles and stuffy nose are probably caused by histamines, alcohol content or tannin. Tannin is the astringent, mouth-drying element in wine, which can also produce allergy-like symptoms—but again, if you have a sensitivity to tannin, you knew it the first time you ate chocolate, or had soy sauce, or drank an overly steeped cup o’ tea.

The irony is that I can relate to wine allergies: Yes, I suffer from a histamine reaction to wine. Stuffy head, sinus pressure—the whole shebang. I simply take a Claritin, and call it a day.

Now, let’s drink to your health … literally.

Katie Finn is a certified sommelier and certified specialist of wine with more than 15 years in the wine industry. She can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..

I know precious little about beer. Aside from some pedestrian lingo about lagers and IPAs and plebeian fermentation knowledge, I’m pretty clueless—and as someone who is an “expert” about wine, this is a sad and shameful fact.

The truth is, when I was a kid, everyone around me drank Budweiser or Kokanee out of a can. When I got into college, Sam Adams was the height of beer-drinking sophistication; wanting to be a “cool kid,” I did my best to choke it down. But I just didn’t understand what all the fuss was about: It was bitter and ashy and gave me cottonmouth—not exactly what I wanted in a nice, cold beverage.

As time went on, and the craft-beer scene started to explode, I continued my efforts to drink “serious” beer and really did my damnedest to “get it” … but the more time passed, the worse the beer got. I really couldn’t figure out why beer stopped being refreshing and drinkable—as if brewers were in some kind of arms race to see who could create the most-bitter, hoppiest, most-marijuana-tasting brew in the land. Or as the kids today say, “that beer is dank.” Nowadays, “dank” means good. If you’re like me, and use terms like “nowadays” and refer to the next generation as “kids,” you might have thought that “dank” referred to a stinky, moldy cave. Nope. Apparently we’re hoping our beer is dank.

So here I am, a sommelier in Southern California, where I find myself surrounded by friends who are immersed in—and very prominent figures in—the SoCal beer culture. I no longer want to be a beer dummy. To this end, Brett Newton—the desert’s pre-eminent cicerone and the beer-writer extraordinaire for this newspaper—agreed to a little education exchange: I would select some wines for him to taste, and he’d describe how he felt about them; in return, he would choose a few beers for me to sip, and I’d offer my two cents.

Here’s how it went: We convened on a Sunday at a friend’s house—with wine and beer and plenty of greasy, alcohol-absorbing foods in tow.

The first beer I tasted is one of Brett’s personal favorites when he wants something easy-drinking and quaffable (although I’m pretty sure he’s never used the word “quaffable”; he’s too manly for that): the Allagash White Belgian-style wheat beer. As soon as I stuck my nose in the glass, I loved the aromas of coriander seeds, dried orange peel and cloves. There was this underlying scent of ripe bananas, a little pine resin, and licorice—and I loved the higher amount of carbonation. It’s a beer that’s savory and spicy, and it made my taste buds tingle, which is always fun. But after a few sips, I could sense my mouth was beginning to dry out. Oh god, it’s happening. Here comes the cottonmouth, and I’m only on beer one. I started wondering if anyone would notice if I went and got a Modelo out of the fridge.

We tasted the Effective Dreams by Modern Times next. This beer is double-dry-hopped, which terrified me. I could only assume that “double-dry-hopped” means “skunky weed in a glass.” Before I smelled it, I had visions of this beer reminding me of a bad high school party, and assumed it would taste like the day after. At first, all I could smell was sweaty armpits. Seriously, the beer was really stinky. But much to my surprise … I liked it. I liked it in the same way I like South African wine that smells like mangy animals and Band-Aids. I liked that it had layers of fresh and bright citrus fruit that reminded me of a New Zealand sauvignon blanc. Once I got past the initial sweet-sweat stench, there were loads of flavors of pineapple and mango—and much to my pleasure, it was thirst-quenching and even a little juicy. It didn’t strip my palate with its double dry hops at all. My name is Katie, and I like double-dry-hopped beer! Who knew?

Next up was the Rodenbach “Alexander” sour from Flanders. To my knowledge, I’ve never had a Flemish beer—but at the recent Craft Beer Weekend at the Ace Hotel, I did experience a few sours, and I really loved them. As an acid hound with wine, I find the tart, vibrant flavors of sour beers to be right up my alley. This particular beer is a red ale fermented with macerated cherries and aged in oak foudres (read: really big barrels)—and it’s quite possibly the most perfect beer for a wine-lover. Right away, I noticed the carbonation was light, and the bubbles were fine, like those in a Champagne, due to the process of bottle conditioning: The bubbles are created from trapped carbon dioxide, just like they are in a bottle of your favorite high-end sparkling wine. I noticed pronounced aromas of bitter coffee and dark chocolate, and a touch of burnt milk. I’ve noticed that the initial aromas I get from these beers are a little … vomitous. I don’t necessarily mean that in a bad way (if it’s possible to not be pejorative while using the word “vomitous”). I’ve just realized that there is an introductory component on the nose of some of these beers that I need to get past before I can begin to appreciate the secondary flavors and aromas. At one point, Brett was describing the making of this beer as “gooey” and “stringy,” so I guess that solidifies my point.

We moved on to a beer that I was incredibly excited about: The Bruery Terreux Bourgogne Noir 2017 is hardly a beer at all! This is what they call an American wild ale, fermented with pinot noir grape must (juice) and aged in French oak puncheons. Intentionally, there is zero carbonation, which not only makes it look like a full-fledged pinot noir; to my delight, it makes it smell like one, too. On the palate, it offered up more beer flavors, but the overall wine components took over, with cola and Bing cherries dominating. I tasted the telltale bitter-coffee component that I associate with ales, but it was neither dominating nor overpowering. This definitely wasn’t wine, but I would be hard-pressed to call it a beer, either. It was the most unusual and thought-provoking beverage I’ve had in a long time.

Lastly, we tasted what I can only assume is the pinnacle of beer hedonism: a 2017 imperial stout called Black Tuesday from The Bruery. This bottle of brew comes in at a whopping 19.5 percent alcohol by volume. For a girl who relishes wine that comes in less than 13 percent ABV, this might as well be a glass of gasoline. Aged in bourbon barrels for 10 months, this beer resembles an oloroso sherry with its thick, burnt-caramel smell. There is a honey and hot-tar sensation on the palate, followed by a ton of Hershey’s milk chocolate. Honestly, I couldn’t tell if I liked it … there is definitely a dessert wine quality to it. I couldn’t drink a whole glass of Black Tuesday, but much to my surprise, a few sips are unexpectedly pleasant. I don’t care for the heat from the high alcohol that resonates out of the glass, but the flavors are harmonious, layered and balanced.

All in all, I have to give kudos to Brett, who curated a selection of beers that were perfect for a sommelier. I realized after this tasting that I had been painting some beers with a broad brush: I assumed that all IPAs and craft beers were plagued with a cannabis, pine-resin, skunky taste—just like people assume all chardonnay is oaky, buttery and laden with cloying caramel. The education I received from Brett was priceless, and I don’t feel like such a beer dummy anymore. Thank you, Brett, for tolerating my absurd descriptions and patiently answering all my questions.

I highly suggest you make your way to Coachella Valley Brewing and have a few pints with Brett. You might get drunk—but you’ll definitely learn something.

Katie Finn is a certified sommelier and certified specialist of wine with more than 15 years in the wine industry. She can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..

When my wine counterpart in these pages, Katie Finn, suggested that we pull a beverage version of Trading Places—where she curated a list of wines for me to taste while I returned the favor with a list of beers—my first thought was, “I’m clearly the Eddie Murphy in this movie analogy, right?”

And then I thought it would be a wonderful way for me—a wine-eschewing philistine who thinks beer is far more exciting—to expand my horizons and sample a wine list curated by a sommelier. After months of trying to coordinate my weird schedule with hers, we finally got together at the house of a mutual friend. We also invited some of our friends to help (and in my case, unload some of their awesome beer cellars for the occasion)—and then we proceeded to try to impress each other.

When putting together my list for Katie, I wanted to showcase one of beer’s greatest strengths: its diversity of styles and flavors. This is trickier than it may seem to those who know how vast beer’s flavor spectrum can be. What I didn’t know is that she had the same thing in mind for me.

Trigger warning: What I’m about to do with these descriptions might make wine connoisseurs cringe. I ask for your forgiveness in advance.

Birichino Malvasia 2018 Bianca: This is a white from Monterey County. Once I got over my usual reaction to white wine (“uh, yeah ... smells like white wine!”), I started picking up on a mild spiced-pineapple aroma. Following that down the gullet (offended yet, wine people?) were floral aromas like rose and jasmine. What I really appreciated about the experience was the acidic, dry finish. I’m not a fan of sweeter wines or ciders; I always enjoy the ones that jump off the palate and don’t cloy in the aftertaste. The touch of warmth in the back of it all didn’t hurt, either. We were off to a decent start.

Forge Cellars 2015 Les Alliés Dry Riesling: I know Riesling is a German grape that makes a white wine, but my knowledge essentially ends there. What I learned from this one, out of the Finger Lakes in New York, was that wines from this grape can be very pleasant—with oak, citrus, orange blossom and another dry, acidic finish.

Sans Liege Groundwork Grenache Blanc: Paso Robles is no stranger to me, because of Firestone Walker’s magnificent brewery and invitational festival that I attend every year. (See my column about my trip last year for more on that.) But Paso Robles is primarily a wine region, even if I’ve successfully (and unconsciously) ignored any of its products until now. This had a floral, alcohol aroma up front with a warming, sweet vanilla finish. It was slightly acidic at the end. It was not my jam.

B Vintners Black Bream Pinot Noir: Now to the color of wine I’ve enjoyed the most when I’ve experienced wine: red. This South African pinot had aromas and flavors of oak and blackberry cheesecake, along with a slight smokiness, a dry finish and some tannic astringency (a drying sensation on the palate). I can only imagine this would pair very well with a cheesecake, but I will defer to Mrs. Finn on that.

Tommasi Rafael 2016 Valpolicella Classico Superiore: As a side note, if beer names ever get this protracted, I’m going to switch professions. As for the wine: This was an Italian dark fruit bomb, with prunes, plums, a hint of cherries—and a dry finish. It’s almost as if she deliberately picked drier wines in anticipation of my aversion to sweet drinks.

Bodegas Atalaya Alaya Tierra 2015: This was the show-stopper for me and my friend Jose. I’ll just show you what I wrote down as I tasted it, verbatim: “Jammy nose. Blackberry and currant. But the first taste is sweet. Then wood. Then hugely herbal. Big sage flavor. Tobacco. I would almost guess this was not oak, but some more exotic Brazilian wood instead.” I was floored—and kind of sad—that no one had showed me a wine with this much character and range before now. Katie generously gave me the remainder of the bottle to take home—and you’d better believe I finished it.

We also covered an “orange” wine, and I took notes regarding the reason it is called that. (It’s white wine, but the skins are kept in during fermentation, like with reds or rosés … but why have a beer guy explain this when you can read Katie’s illuminating column on this subject instead?) Unfortunately, I apparently neglected to make any notes of the bottle that she opened. Hey, I was drinking wine AND beer. What do you want from me? Professionalism?

My main takeaways from this experience were: If you ever get a chance to have a talented and thoughtful sommelier choose a wine flight for you, definitely step on board, even if you’re normally not a wine-drinker; and wine is not a restricted by its limited ingredients, as I mistakenly thought. The Alaya Tierra proved that to me, and I’ll be interested to see what more wine can accomplish as it strikes out into uncharted and nontraditional areas more and more. Who knows? One day, you may find me writing a wine column. But it won’t be this day.

Thanks, Katie! Let’s do this again.

Brett Newton is a certified cicerone (like a sommelier for beer) and homebrewer who has mostly lived in the Coachella Valley since 1988. He currently works at the Coachella Valley Brewing Co. taproom in Thousand Palms. He can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..

Sometimes it’s said as a joke, as in: “Ohh, that’s a ‘Katie wine.’ You probably won’t like it,” meaning it’s funky, earthy, savory or just plain weird. Other times, “Katie wine” has taken on a more positive definition, like: “I grabbed this bottle of wine I’ve never heard of and want to give it a try! It looked like a ‘Katie wine!’”

Either way, it’s no secret that my wine tastes are fairly specific. At my educational wine tastings, I always try to represent wines that cross the spectrum stylistically. For the whites, there’s always something zippy, high-acid and tart; I also include a round, full-bodied, rich style. For the reds, I’ll show a light-bodied, fresh and fruity wine; I’ll throw in an “old-world” varietal from Italy or France that has some earthiness and a rustic quality; and then to finish it off, there’s the powerhouse: the huge, extracted, over-ripe wine that is about as subtle as Tammy Faye Bakker’s makeup.

It never fails: The punch-you-in-the-face wine that resembles motor oil is always the most popular selection of the night.

Honestly, it confounds me. And for a long time, if I fully confess my emotions, it pissed me off. As much as I try to be the poster child for wine tolerance, I wanted to smack my forehead or roll my eyes when guests would poo-poo anything that didn’t have at least 15 percent alcohol and/or didn’t taste more like Jim Beam than cabernet.

During the tastings, once we got to the heavy red, I would hear statements like, “Now that’s a real wine!” and, “Finally, we get to the good stuff!” I would pour silky and elegant pinot noirs from the Cote du Nuits and hear guests comment that the wine was “wimpy” or “it didn’t taste like anything.” As a wine lover, I was exasperated.

It took me a while to realize why I had a personal aversion to high-alcohol wines. And it took me even longer to identify why the average consumer gravitates toward those hedonistic wine beasts.

I try to avoid getting drunk at all costs. I don’t find the sensation particularly enjoyable: Glassy eyes, slurred speech and a wobbly stance are characteristics I don’t find overly attractive. I drink wine for a living. I meet with wine distributors often to taste new wine releases. I’m also a social wine drinker—I don’t care for beer or cocktails—and I very much enjoy having wine with my dinner. But no matter the drinking occasion, I find remaining vertical and awake to be a matter of great importance. If I’m at dinner or a get-together for a few hours, and the only wines available have a-melt-your-face-off alcohol percentage, I’m either relegated to just one or two glasses (no fun), or I’m getting blotto drunk (also, no fun).

Then there’s the flavor issue. Obviously, this is a much more subjective concern, but I stand behind my opinion that if a wine-drinker wants to become a better taster—or have a more adept palate—learning to understand and appreciate lower alcohol wines (read: balanced wines) with subtle nuances is paramount to being taken seriously as a wine connoisseur.

For example: Any idiot with taste buds can tell you what blue cheese tastes like. Its sour and pungent flavors and aromas scream at you from the moment you open the wrapper. It takes much more thought and concentration to identify the delicate caramel and nutty aromas of a mild cheese like Manchego. Wine is no different: Tasting the elusive and delicate flavors of a chardonnay from Chablis is much more difficult than simply absorbing the overt flavors of an overly ripe, forceful chardonnay from California. In short, understated, low-key, quiet flavors take work to identify.

But … who wants to work that hard to taste their drink? Really, I get it.

This brings me to the part where I finally began to understand what makes the average wine-drinker’s palate tick. What was it about the loud, blowtorch-in-your-mouth wines that made everyone get all giddy? Then it hit me: We are a cocktail culture—a cosmopolitan, Manhattan, gin-and-tonic, Jack-and-Coke country. Wine and its subculture came to us after we already had this notion of what alcoholic beverages were supposed to do—taste sweet and get us drunk. The idea that our alcoholic beverage du jour needed food properly paired with it, or the thought that we should be swirling the glass while pontificating the subtle nuances and layers of flavors—those are just not our collective forte. So … when wine bars, and wine tastings, and trips to Napa became all the rage, the natural progression was to simply substitute a glass of wine instead of a glass of bourbon—and the expectation was that your wine was going to be just as robust and high octane as your Maker’s Mark neat. And a lot of wineries complied.

I also realize that as we age, our taste buds become more and more muted. Therefore, it’s easy to understand why wines that have a more concentrated and fruit-forward profile become more appealing. They give a struggling palate more flavor.

I suppose, at the end of the day, we have to ask ourselves why we choose wine. If getting drunk is the purpose, there are certainly faster, cheaper and more efficient ways to get there. Perhaps, as the cheeky cocktail napkin would have you believe, wine is simply how classy people get shitfaced nowadays.

I no longer get pissed off at people who demand over-the-top wines, nor do I feel the desire to smack my head when I’m told beautifully balanced wines are wimpy. Instead, I happily pour whatever the crowd-pleasing wine of the day is. And then I go home and open up a “Katie wine.”

Katie Finn is a certified sommelier and certified specialist of wine with more than 15 years in the wine industry. She can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..